


In which Gerri thinks about Age

by Writer_47



Series: Nurture [2]
Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:54:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25866268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writer_47/pseuds/Writer_47
Summary: #2)  An accompaniment of sorts to 'Yacht' - what happens next in their developing relationship."Come on, it’s kinda perfect isn’t it, you the calm, me the storm.”
Relationships: Gerri Kellman/Roman "Romulus" Roy
Series: Nurture [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1883719
Comments: 14
Kudos: 48





	In which Gerri thinks about Age

**Author's Note:**

> (On a creative streak with these two at the moment so likely more to come...)

**> Can I come in your hair?**

That, in the middle of a meeting. Everything is serious and crucial and shitsville city management. And after two hours of boredom he got up to fetch a coffee from the side and slipped out his phone to send her that.

Leaning back on the desk, eating a pastry, watching her face as her phone flashes and she sweeps her finger over the screen and reads and never even reacts. Her face is as placid and disinterested after as it was before.

He likes to push things. See how far he can take it before she’s pissed off with him and bats him away like some irritant. But it’s taking more and more now to get her to push him away, and he sees that as a victory of sorts.

He considers sending something even more gratuitous, he’s resisted dick pics so far, unsure how she’d react to something so obviously sexual between them. Words are one thing, physical pictorial evidence quite another.

Frustrated he returns to his seat, twiddles his pen, sips his coffee. She turns her notepad in front of him and he scans her handwriting, ‘Concentrate!’ She doesn’t look at him, and he huffs, trying to tune in to the discussion. He needs to get better at this, he has got better at this, but there’s still a way to go.

There’s a call for a ten-minute comfort break and some of the room scatter, others remain, chatting, getting coffee, trying to lighten the mood with different topics.

She has left her chair, he remains at the head of the table, swings round on his chair to the window and overlooks the city. In his pocket his phone buzzes and he slips it out, brightens when he sees GK.

**> I like my hair.**

**> So do I. Hence the request.**

He enjoys this flirtation with her, surprising to find he enjoys it more than any other chase he’s had with a member of the opposite sex.

Swinging back around to his table he quickly scans for her, but Karolina is informing her of something or other at the other side of the room. He can see her phone in her palm, as if it’s wedged there permanently.

**> I’d make it worth your while. **

He sends and he watches as she turns it over, glances down, then back to Karolina, all business, all focus. He opens Twitter, scans what’s trending, has a laugh at a few threads. And then the room is filling and he knows they’re returning to the meeting and he’s immediately bored again.

She leans over to him as she slides her chair back into place.

“Not enough money in the world,” she whispers before sitting back and refocussing.

They don’t wrap up until it’s dark and he scoots behind her to her office.

“I’ll have the papers drawn up immediately,” she’s saying as they go inside. “But read them thoroughly, post-it anything you want clarifying or editing.”

She sits at her desk.

“Not now?”

“What bit of ‘immediately’ needs explaining?”

“It’s late, we’ve been in that meeting for over four hours. Do it in the morning.”

“Nobody asked you to stay.”

“Gerri…” he softens his voice, perches on the edge of her desk, “Let’s go get some food, go back to yours and –,”

She looks up from her computer screen. “And?”

He grins, shrugging.

“Look,” she slips her glasses off, “I enjoy this… whatever, text situation, but you need to be careful. If anybody ever taps your phone.”

“What? They’ll think I’m an annoying perverted prick who sexually harasses his legal counsel?” He holds his hands up, “Please, don’t sue.”

“Piss off.” She puts her glasses on again and returns to her work. “I meant that, piss off, let me work.”

“Ger…”

“Not tonight.” She says more firmly. “Go find a friend to play with.”

He slips off her desk, pushes round the paperweight she has on there, he doesn’t like it when she says things like that, it somehow cheapens this whole thing.

“You enjoy the texts though,” he is saying as he leaves, “that’s a win for me.”

*

**> You scare me.**

**> Good.**

On her way to meet her trainer. It is brisk and cold out and the thought of getting changed into gym wear is not inviting. This is the earliest she’s left the office in months, but she senses a change, like things might finally be starting to settle down – as settled as things ever are anyhow.

**> Why?**

She adds as an afterthought as her car comes to a halt, the driver opens the door and she makes the quick journey from vehicle to building. Takes the elevator up to her floor. This is a highly exclusive place and she went out of her way to find one where it would be unlikely she’d bump into anyone from Waystar.

**> I think you like that you scare me.**

**> Don’t be a dick.**

**> Turns you on.**

She is shaking her head, rolling her eyes to the empty elevator, but there’s a frisson of excitement there, running down her spine.

**> Where are you?**

**> Busy.**

**> Meeting someone?**

**> Yes.**

**> A man?**

**> Yes.**

**> …..???**

**> Jealous?**

**> Too fucking right!**

She leaves it at that. Content in the fact she’s wound him up just enough. She leaves her phone in the locker on purpose, knows there’ll be messages when she returns to it, maybe even a missed call.

“So, twice in one week darling, what called for the last-minute appointment?” Her trainer is about 32 and has that kind of porcelain Ken-doll look she’s quite used to.

“I need to work on this middle bit,” she says, avoiding looking Pierre in the eye as he records her weight on his tablet. She steps off the scales.

“You’ve actually lost a bit of weight you know.”

“Work has been,” she doesn’t need to say, surely he watches the news “but I’ve started this new thing, was recommended by a friend, one of those where they bring you all your meals and there’s a strict calorie count etc. I’m basically living of fuckin sushi, salad leaves and fresh air. And coffee, of course.”

“Can I ask why?” He says, she’s been coming here for years and has never told him she worried about her food intake.

“I just, I’m getting older, I wanted to be a bit fitter.”

“You’re pretty fit for…”

She holds her hand up, “Don’t say for _a woman of my age_. Please. This is the issue.”

He doesn’t respond but stares at her for a few moments.

“Look. I have a new…” what does she refer to him as – _boyfriend_ seems icky and childish. _Lover_ seems too pansy. “…interest.” She decides on. “And he’s a little younger than me.”

“Oh? Younger as in early fifties?”

She inclines her head.

“Forties?”

She purses her lips.

“Fuck me.”

“Quite. Late thirties. And don’t give me that look, that is what I’m afraid of, that I’ll get that look from people. He’s late thirties, I choose to look at it as ‘almost forty.’

“Okay…”

"Don’t snigger.”

“I’m not darling, I’m not, I’m just…” he is flicking his fingers against the side of the tablet, his manicure is better than hers. “Wow, that’s, wow.”

“Oh fuck off. What reaction would you have if a man my age was standing here telling you he was dating someone twenty years his junior?”

“I’d say congratu-fucking-lations!”

“Well then. You can afford me the same sentiment.”

“And is it?”

“Is it what? Congratu-fucking-lations?” He nods and she feels her heart thump strongly. “I think so, yes. He’s…” _How the hell do you sum him up?_ “He’s got a lot of energy!” She says after much thought and Pierre bursts into laughter.

“All power to you. Hey it’s New York, anything goes, right.”

“Well quite. But back to the issue at hand.” She points to her mid-section. “This. I want it to be smoother, flatter. I know I’m not going to be some pencil but he keeps banging on about taking a vacation and if we’re on a beach all day somewhere I want to at least be confident enough to not cover myself up.

“Fair enough, we can work on that. You never take vacations.”

“I know.”

He puts the tablet down after typing in a few pieces of information.

“You er, okay energy wise then?”

She rolls her eyes at that, only the fact she’s known him for so long and that he’s so outrageously flirtatious allows him to get away with it.

“I can keep up…” she says, mouth curling. And besides, Roman doesn’t always need her body, a lot of the time he just needs her words, her voice.

“Let’s get going then, we’ll start with the warm-up routine.” He’s leading her over to the mats to stretch. “When do I get to meet him?” He asks standing in front of her.

“God knows,” she answers, and that question throws her a little because she’s been avoiding asking herself that very same thing.

*

**> Where are you?**

**> Office.**

**> Come over.**

**> It’s almost 8, I was heading home.**

**> Come over.**

**> What for?**

**> Business related interests. I’ll get food. You eaten?**

 **> No.** ‘ _Fucking diet!’_ She thinks.

**> COME OVER!**

**> You should know by now threats don’t work on me. What kind of food?**

**> I’ll eat you.**

She sniggers at that, she asked for it but he’s so childish.

**> I’d prefer Thai.**

**> Done.**

**> Half-hour.**

It isn’t often she goes to his apartment; she isn’t sure why, just seems it’s turned out that way. He turns up at her door at some ridiculous hour, sometimes he stays, sometimes he doesn’t. She doesn’t push because he doesn’t push, and besides she’s used to her space so having him there every night would no doubt drive her mad. It works for them, they enjoy being together, it doesn’t mean they need to do it all the time. For as much as this is serious it is also casual too. She doesn’t doubt his affections, she trusts him, he trusts her, everything else is just noise.

He’s leaning against his open door when she gets off the elevator.

“Evening Geraldine.”

The tone in his voice makes her smile, the way he’s pushing himself against the door, rolling his body in a bid to stave off the obvious energy and excitement at seeing her.

“Door man now?”

“For you. You wearing underwear?” He asks as if it’s a sudden thought.

She sets off down the hall towards him, ignores the ott mirrored walls, ignores his question.

“Nice outfit. Hot.”

“Thank you. ‘Hot’ was what I aimed for when I chose it for back-to-back meetings.” She passes him and goes inside with an air of nonchalance. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, milady.”

He closes the door, leans back against it, she notes the faint light, candles on the table, music in the background – he’s made an effort.

She drops her bag to one of his oversized armchairs, shrugs off her jacket, bends to slip off her shoes and all the time he’s still standing by the door watching her as if she’s the most glorious thing he’s ever seen.

His eyes widen, mouth runs dry, as she bends to reach beneath her dress and pull down her panties, dropping them by her shoes.

“No,” she shrugs, in answer to his earlier question.

And then she smiles mischievously, runs her tongue along her teeth as he watches her.

She thinks of telling her trainer about his energy the other week when he rushes at her, lifting her up off her feet and growling against her stomach.

She gasps his name, laughs against his neck as he jostles her, throwing her over his shoulder. He seems such a slight man but he’s all muscle, and he carries her easily through the apartment and to his bed.

“I wasn’t going to start the evening here,” he says laying her down.

“You did make a promise.”

He’s on his knees at the side of the bed, pushing her dress up her thighs. “I don’t always keep my promises.”

“Try.” She reaches to take her glasses off and then glares over the top of them at him instead.

"On,” he states to her unasked question, he grabs her legs, pulls her to him which makes her yelp in surprise again, giggling like she’s young and overwhelmed with the excitement of a new relationship.

“How was your day, dear?” He teased, that playful tone in his voice she had come to enjoy so much. “As much of a hell-hole as usual?” He placed delicate kisses to her thighs.

“Yes. Distract me.”

He blew on her, that sensitive aching centre desperate for his touch, felt her legs shudder against him.

“You’re getting better at this.” She said.

He wasn’t about to tell her he had spent the latter half of a strategy meeting googling the best way to give head, complete with pictures, and had stored the most valuable nuggets in the brain-storage-file marked ‘Ways to make Gerri happy’.

He’d had never been quite so focussed on a woman before, and he knew he was, was keenly aware of how this past year had been some kind of life reckoning – like when he was a kid he was afraid of train tunnels. The blackness freaked him out. Undergrounds too. Hot and dark, like descending into hell. That was how this year, and the preceding ones too, had seemed – a slow descent into hell. He was coming out the other side, he was perhaps more mature, perhaps a little more business-savvy, there was the chance to be taken seriously. His family was in fucking shreds, no amount of therapy was going to even scratch the surface. But then there was her. The light in the midst of it, guiding him through, gently, with certainty.

He kept coming back to the thought that this could be the making of him.

Someone on his level both business-wise and personal. Someone whose intelligence meant she could keep up with his most far flung of ideas and distractions. She met him word for word, thought for thought, she would shoot him down when he was behaving like a dick and build him up when he needed it.

It was the first genuine experience of real care he’d ever had.

Not to mention she’d turned out to be some fierce kinky mother-fucker who turned him on with a flick of her wrist.

So when he reflected on what she’d given him, googling fucking how to lick a clit was the least he could do in return. And putting the time and effort in to doing it right was nothing.

And besides, he liked the way she breathed his name out when she came. It was the best his name had ever sounded.

“Wellll…” She exhaled, staring up at his ceiling, “That scratched an itch,” she was stretching like a cat. “Shall we eat dinner now then?”

He rocked back on his knees looking up at her, “You are kidding, right?”

She supressed a smirk, “Why, something wrong?”

“My itch still itches.”

“Well, fucking scratch it then.”

She held his gaze as he unhooked his belt buckle, chewed on her bottom lip as he pushed his trousers down just enough. There was something challenging in her gaze, his wide-eyed dark expression looping over with desire and want. She watched his hand reach to grasp his erection, lifted her foot as he did so and placed it on his chest, toes flexing as she pushed him back slightly then let him roll forward again. He dipped his head down, bit her toes through the nylon of her stockings.

“I thought you’d have mirrored ceilings,” she stated.

“You want them, I’ll get them tomorrow.”

She actually could think of little worse than seeing herself have sex but still.

“I’ve been thinking of doing this all day. Doing you all day.”

“I bet you have, disgusting pervert.” She dropped her foot from his chest, “Stop.” She instructed and his hand stilled.

He watched in anticipation as she slid down the side of the bed, came to her knees in front of him, her back pressed against the mattress.

“Is this incredibly painful?”

He nodded, almost panting.

“Would it be terrible of me to leave now?”

He nodded again.

“Because I’ve got what I came for…” she placed a hand on his stomach, toyed with his shirt buttons, fingers tripping down to the bottom one, just low enough that she could feel the heat from his erection on her wrist. “So,” she shrugged, “no reason for me to stay. Is there?”

He jerked his chin up, not entirely the submissive anymore but she was still very much in charge.

“What would you like?” She asked.

“Your mouth.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, you haven’t earned that yet.” She’d done it twice so far, but there were some things she had to keep in the drawer marked ‘special treats’.

“Hand?”

“I _would_ do a better job.” She pointed out, leaning into him, kissing him deeply, tasting herself on his tongue – perhaps it was an aphrodisiac, certainly his wanton desire and need for her was, she’d never felt quite so deliciously sexual, as if he’d flicked some switch in her brain and 'fun' now consisted of the two of them together testing things out. It was an entirely new way to think of the word ‘play’.

She sighed heavily, as if annoyed with him, as she dropped her hand down, a fingernail tracing along the length of his erection.

“Painful?”

“Fucking agony,” he moaned, and then she gripped him in her hand and his head fell back as a primal raw groan escaped his mouth. “What the fuck you do to me.” He breathed, already jerking forward in her hand.

“A-ha,” she watched his face change, resisted smiling, altered the speed, the strength of her hold on him depending on the expression on his face. “And is there anybody else who does it this well?”

“Fuck no.”

“Who are you thankful for?”

“You.”

“Who do you want to please?”

“You.”

“Whose hair do you want to come in?” She squeezed hard and he jolted against her, hands flailing to touch her legs where she knelt.

“Yours.”

“And why are you not going to do that?”

He was panting, red faced, exhausted.

“Why?!” She snapped.

“Because Gerri’s hair is not a toy for some disgusting sick pervert to play in.”

“Exactly.”

*

When she comes out to the dining area later she has changed into one of the robes he keeps in the guest bathroom (she tried not to think about why he had so many hung in there), her hair pinned up.

“Here we go,” he handed her a glass of wine and knocked his glass against hers. “Happy Thursday.”

She sipped the cool liquid, felt every inch of it travel down her throat. “God that’s good. Is the food here?”

“Five minutes,” he lifted his phone to her, showing the app. “And yes I ordered all the stuff you like.”

“Don’t tell me you can remember.”

“No, Christ, this does it for me.”

She shook her head at that, but there was some kind of normality in the fact that he was still such an absolute sod, she could trust in that.

“So, made an effort, nice table decorated,” he said, rolling his body around to show her.

She was gazing out at his view, the expanse of the city before them lit up like a Christmas tree. She knew he had one-way glass, wondered just how many girls he’d enticed up there, won them over with the wonder of it, fucked them against the windows.

“Hey,” he nudged her elbow, pointing out the table again.

“Your work, though, or the housekeeper?” She moved toward the table to sit. Stopped. Noted the red Cartier bag sitting there. “Roman.”

“It’s just a little la la nah.”

“You don’t have to keep…” she put her wineglass down sighing. Uncurled the ribbon at the top of the bag, took out the sizeable red box inside and flipped it open, feeling his eyes on her. Inside sat a diamond bracelet, she knew the range because she’d looked at it herself, and besides she already had the matching items. “Roman, this is $40,000 bracelet.”

“Mmm, try it on.”

“You don’t… I mean, I know that’s like milk-money to you but you keep –.”

“What?” he looked hurt as he stood in front of her.

“This is the third time this week, the necklace, the matching earrings… now the bracelet.”

“I would have given all three together but remember you said don’t rush things, spread it out,” he indicated just that with his hands. “So, this is me spreeeading the gift through the week.”

“You don’t need to _buy_ me.”

Truth was she could afford to buy the entire set herself anyway, but that wasn’t the point, he had wanted to give her something.

“I’m not trying to.”

“That Prada bag the other week, sitting on my desk when I got in.”

“You said you liked that.”

“I love it. Again, not the point. I’ve no fucking idea how you got it because I was on the waiting list for that bag and you just,” she snapped her fingers.

“Hey, charm works.”

She screwed her mouth up, tilted her head to regard him. “Is this what you do? With your other… with other women?”

“Rarely.”

“It’s like you have a crush and you need to impress me to get my attention.”

“I do have a crush.” The intercom beeped and he was glad of the interruption (she wasn’t). “Food.”

He went to fetch it and she sat, crossed her legs, sipped her wine. She flicked open the fastening on the bracelet, pushed the arm of her robe up and slipped it onto her wrist. It was startlingly beautiful.

“See, looks good.” He started setting the takeaway out on the table between them.

“Roman,” she stated when he sat down, pressing her hand to his arm. “You don’t have to try so hard. You already have my attention, all of it.”

He nodded, unnerved, off-balance, by that piece of information.

“You trying to say you’d miss me if I wasn’t here?”

“Don’t push it.” She spread her napkin in her lap.

“Still gonna buy you gifts.”

“Roman…” she complained.

“What? I like buying you presents, it’s fun for a start, never had to work so hard for a handbag before. Don’t get the fucking fuss with it all but whatever, you like it.”

She smirked at that, the image of him on the phone negotiating over a bloody bag.

He popped a dumpling into his mouth.

“Can you have a serious conversation with me for a moment?”

“Hmm, nope, sorry, don’t think so.”

“Try. Or at least try not to speak as I do.”

He had the look on his face that her children used to have when she chastised them, and she had the feeling she always had in those situations when she was going to have to be mean for their own good.

“Look, I feel like we’re maybe, like you’re…”

“I know you said be quiet,” he interrupted, holding his hand up, “But this is the tact I take when basically telling someone to fuck-the-fuck off. Thanks very much. Buh-bye now.”

“I’m not saying fuck-the-fuck off.” She watched his shoulders relax. “What I’m saying is, listen to me now don’t go off in your head making your own narrative. I’m saying no gifts. Unless it’s a special occasion,” she added, “Birthday, for example, Christmas. And just, you are still going out, aren’t you? Friends and such.”

He shrugged.

“What’s that mean, when did you last go?”

“Last Friday, night at some exclusive club.”

“Okay. That’s good, but how often did you used to go out, and don’t give me no bullshit about once a week.”

“Once a week I stayed home.”

“Right well, let’s find a happy medium perhaps.”

“Is this a mom chat?”

“God no.”

“Because it feels a bit like a mom chat.”

“No, Rome, I just want you to… still be young, still go out and have fun and let off steam and…”

“Are you wanting an open relationship? Is that what you’re saying? That I should fuck other women because you want to, you know, go find some other cock out there?”

She leant back in her chair, groaning, “Definitely not. But… BUT,” she said forcefully when he tried to interrupt. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to stop you doing just that. Just be careful, you know, protection and such because I don’t want to…” she gestured between them.

“Alright.” He put his chopsticks down. “What if I _don’t_ want that?”

She smiled, “Well, I’m happy about that too.”

“Could you be _very_ happy about it?”

She sucked on her tongue. “Yes, I could be _very_ happy about it.”

“How about _very Gerri_ happy about it?”

She shook her head, despairing.

“This feels like a set of rules being drawn up.” He said, admitting defeat and becoming serious.

“Mmm?”

“So, can I speak now?”

“Of course, this isn’t a ‘telling off’.”

“It was getting a bit that way –,”

“No, I –,”

“Ah, my turn, you - silent woman.” He zipped his lips and she folded her arms nodding. “So, from my point of view – my lifestyle may have changed but that is not entirely down to you, so don’t get too fucking big-headed about it. This has been shit-city for us all, I’ve never worked such long hours, never been so exhausted, and believe it or not when you’re front and centre in a media shit storm and either your brother or your dad are looking at jail time there ain’t that many friends hanging around.”

She sighed at that, chewing her lip. She knew what is was to a) work longer hours than the rest of the world and b) to not have that many friends when she was free. Her life was the company, the company was her life.

“You, and me, and this thing, has been the one solid gold thing in my life. So don’t crap on it.”

“I’m not, I’m…”

“I know, I know, you’re cautious and nervous and what-the-fuck blah blah blah.”

She smiled, reaching across to place her hand on his, “I’m just saying calm down, take your time, I’m not going anywhere.” She remembered being on the yacht with him, his head in her lap, “I’m not going to disappear. Alright.”

He nodded.

“Can we eat now, talk about other stuff?”

“Sure.” She picked up her chopsticks. “What you want to talk about?”

“Can we revisit the hair thing?”

“No.”

“Spoilsport.”

“My God, I’ll never be thin,” she said closing her eyes at how good the food was.

“I like you how you are.”

“I’m trying to lose weight.”

“What the hell for?”

“This damn vacation you want to take, and I know, you deserve it, you have worked hard, I’ll grant you that.”

“Are you _very Gerri_ proud?” He teased.

“Very. But if we’re going to go to some island somewhere…”

“Is that a yes for it then?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you sound like it’s a yes.”

She twisted her mouth to one side, a lopsided smile. “Yes.”

“Fucking excellent,” he jumped up, grabbing his iPad from the side. “So, let me show you where.”

“If it’s hot, quiet and the theme is alcohol I’m there.”

“You know,” he was skimming through pictures. “My motto is usually if it’s hot, wet and covered in alcohol I’m there.”

“Pig.”

“Goddess.”

They laughed together at that, she took a long drink of her wine and he turned the tablet to her. “You been here?”

“No.”

“Good. Luxury resort, just the two of us, private beach, private staff, jet skis at our beck and call.”

“Jet skis! Jesus Christ.”

“You’ve got to be good at that, I know how tight your thighs are.”

“I haven’t done it for about thirty years. But yes, okay.”

“You can ride with me to start with.”

“You’ll go too fast.”

He was still flicking through photos and she was already picturing herself in one of the hammocks with some giant frozen cocktail in her hand, not zooming around on jet skis.

“I am capable of making sensible decisions.” He said, holding his hand up to gesture to her, “Case in point. Most sensible decision of my life.”

Whether she felt he was going too fast or not, there was no denying his affection, and now the very obvious and numerous ways he showed it, were intoxicating. After so long alone, perhaps even before becoming a widow, there was something nurturing and human about finding someone who showed you that affection. Something pure in knowing you were wanted.

“Roman,” she said, touching his hand again where it lay on the table. “I know I was a bit… you know, earlier.”

“Dragonish?”

She raised her eyebrows. “I’m not going to say it now.”

“What?”

“I was going to be nice but you’ve lost that.”

“Ger,” he bent his head down, kissed the back of her hand where it lay on his, nibbled on her knuckles.

“I do care, that’s all, I hope you know that.”

He did, of course he did, nobody behaves the way she did with him if they didn’t care. But it didn’t matter that he knew it, because his stupid brain did stupid things and somersaulted off in tangents and he questioned it all. A hundred therapists had told him in a hundred ways he needed stability, love, reassurance, to build his confidence. He still hadn’t quite got there, but he was sure as hell on the right path now.

“So if I book this.”

“You know what,” she was eating again, picking at some of the food he’d ordered. “I think maybe you should head out there first, maybe go for two or three weeks, and I’ll fly in separately for a week.”

“What? That’s a fucking ridiculous idea. Two weeks together.”

“Two weeks for you, one for me.”

“This isn’t bargaining, I’m not part of a fucking what-have-you, business meeting. Two weeks, proper vacation.”

“And how will it look to everyone else when the COO and General Counsel disappear off on vacation at the same time? You thought about that?”

“Hang on whilst I give an actual shit.”

“Well, I do. And you will do if questions are asked.”

He put the tablet down, mulling it. “Look, I actually don’t have an issue with questions being asked. But just for the sake of argument, next week I’ll announce at the start of the Monday meeting ‘ta-da I’m going away for a break’, and I give you all the dates and you go ‘oh no shit, I’ve already booked those weeks, oh what a conundrum’.”

“Is that your best Gerri impression?”

“I could do a better one if you gave me your glasses.”

“Is this mocking me?”

“In the nicest possible way. You can mock me too, it’s kind of a back-and-forth reciprocal thing.”

“Oh hi, I’m Roman Roy, also know as limp-dick man-child, swinging around spreading joy but don’t do no fucking work!”

He threw a dumpling at her.

“Hey!”

“Hey yourself.”

“Don’t waste food,” she picked it up from the floor.

“Mom! You do realise I’m going to say that now every time you try and land me with some crap.”

“Oh please don’t, I really hate it.”

There was something in her tone that struck so he shelved the joke. “What sayeth you to the plan?”

“As flimsy as a call-girl’s-knickers but alright, I can act pretty damn well when required.”

“I bet you can. You minx. Question –,”

“This fish is divine,” she held out her chopsticks to him and he took the offered food, nodding as he agreed with her. “Go on.”

“Any movie, any period, any genre – what would you roleplay as a bit of a turn-on?”

“A bit of a turn-on?” She frowned, thinking, as always his mind went left-field.

“Like you could be Jaws and I could wrestle you.”

“Riiight…”

He laughed, “That was a joke.”

“Yeah. I got that. Who you gonna be, Batman or some shit?”

“See myself much more in the old western style, some Clint Eastwood thing. Christ we should have fancy dress at the Christmas party.”

“We tried that some years ago, remember, was a fucking disaster.”

“I remember when Will pissed on the Christmas tree.”

“Thank you for reminding me of that priceless moment.”

“I think I still have the video somewhere.”

“Please don’t. I’m still having flashbacks to the naked carolling on top of the buffet table.”

He laughed loudly at that, “Amazing! Hand out free drinks and sit back and watch the ride.”

It wasn’t surprising he enjoyed humiliation considering his background, he’d been brought up watching both his father and mother berate others – often, he’d been the butt of it.

“How’d you stay so clean over the years?”

“Practice. And intelligence.”

“You ever behaved naughtily with a work colleague, current situation exempt?”

“Never.” She finished her wine, reached for the bottle.

“Liar.”

“I am not.”

“Not even a cheeky fondle at the back of some party, hand down your bra, up your skirt, whatever.”

“Don’t project your fantasies onto me.”

“Could be a first then, next staff party, I’ll feel you up in the cloak room.”

She chuckled at that, leaning back in her chair, lifting her feet and nudging his shins until he got the idea and brought them into his lap, rubbing her toes. In the candlelight he looked relaxed, darkly handsome though she didn’t usually look at him and think so, but there was something beyond mere looks going on, a meeting of minds yes, but this masculine adult side of him had grown so over the past year. She was attracted to that.

“Sooo, I've been wanting to ask for a while, these so-called ninety-year-old men who pounce on you…?

“A-ha.”

“Wanna write me a list of names and I’ll have the old bastards taken out?”

“I usually take them out myself to be fair,” she was toying with her wine glass, running her fingers around the edge. “And besides,” she lifted her glass to her mouth, “it seems evidently clear that I prefer my men younger.”

“You naughty, naughty girl.”

She spluttered into her glass.

“I like how you laugh now.”

“Yes, I like it too.”

"It's like there was work Gerri, business Gerri," he was still rubbing her toes, the heel of her foot, "And then there was more relaxed Gerri, sarcastic-I-can-go-head-to-head-with-her Gerri. Now there's sexy Gerri, smiley Gerri."

"I sound like some fucking multiple personality type." She shot back, but the sentiment made her happy. She felt happy.

*

It starts to snow as the evening wears on, and they lie naked on his bed watching it, she on her stomach, chin resting on her arms. He is half on top of her, kissing down her spine, alternating between that and simply lying there still and calm.

“When shall I book for?”

“Next year?”

“Before Christmas,” he says, impatient, kissing her shoulder, lifting the sheet of blonde hair from the back of her neck and kissing there too.

“Alright. But I will need to work, okay, sometimes, if something happens, my phone remains on.”

“Fine.” He moved down her body, resting his head on her back as he looked up at the ceiling. “We’ll have matching tans.”

“I never tan. Too pale.”

“Me too. But it does bring the freckles on your chest out.”

She is softened by the fact he’s noticed that.

“I told my trainer at the fitness place I’m seeing someone younger,” she admits.

His chest tightens at that, “Oh?”

“No names, minimal information.”

“But you actually admitted it to someone?”

“Is that a good or bad thing?”

“Good of course,” he turns his face, runs his fingers along the curve of her bottom. “Never thought you’d tell a soul.”

“I think we both have to be very discreet.”

“Why? Compared to what’s happened this piece of news is very low rent.”

“Hmm, maybe.”

“I don’t get, never have, why people have such a hang-up about age. Christ it means very little nowadays.”

“How many older women do you know with younger men, really?”

He thought for a moment, then clicked his fingers in the air, “Joan fucking Collins.”

“That’s it?!”

“Surely Elizabeth Taylor had a younger one at some point in amongst all of those, or Zsa Zsa.”

“Out of the three you’ve just said I’m choosing Taylor as my style idol.”

“Business genius, made a mint from that perfume.”

“How do you know that?” She chuckled into the pillow.

“Hey, I read.”

“Gossip mags?”

“Reading is reading.” He huffed. “It’s not such a big thing.”

“It’s twenty years.” She said, and there was a mix of frustration and acceptance in her voice. “As if we’re… I mean, just imagine, you’ve got some invite to some party for some friend’s birthday or whatever, and what, you turn up with me on your arm?”

“Yes.”

“I dress for business and balls.”

“That’s bollocks. And who you think I’m hanging out with, fucking twenty-something teenlet types? Most are my age or older, most are married now, or close to it, some with kids. If it were a guy’s trip to Vegas you wouldn’t be invited anyhow.” He teased. “But most of the birthdays I go to now are drinks and dinner in some swanky place or a gathering at whatsit’s skyscraper. I’d be glad to have you there for the interesting conversation.”

“We would _be_ the interesting conversation.”

“For like ten minutes, then they’d talk to you, realise the sexy bad-ass bitch you are, and get over it. Come on, it’s kinda perfect isn’t it, you the calm, me the storm.”

“Yessss,” she mumbled, feeling heavy headed. “But do you really want to be hanging out with my friends?”

“I can wallop the hell out of couple’s tennis, just store that one, we’d be raking it in on the Saturday circuit. All those bloody lessons Dad made us take.”

She laughed again.

“Whatever, you know, you’re interested in. Theatre, opera, bloody tight wearing ballet shit prancing about, I’ll do it, I can sit still for a couple of hours.”

“Unlikely.” She groaned, “I need to turn over, my back is aching.”

He moved to the side to let her move, pulled the sheets up over them once she’d settled back down.

“And I’m not a ballet fan.”

“Great, skip that.” He was leaning on one arm, looking down at her.

“Dating starts small, way before all of this.” She pointed out.

“I’ve always done things the wrong way round.”

“Drinks, dinner, trying to kiss me in the cinema.” She listed.

“I’m down for all of those things.”

He’d had always been so self-involved that reading someone else’s thoughts and feelings, or even just caring about them, had never even occurred to him. Until her. And now he felt he was so finely tuned into her the smallest shift in her equilibrium upset his.

“Are you embarrassed?” He asked of her silence.

“Of course not. Not of you. More of… me.”

“You never doubt yourself, ever.”

“No, but then I’ve never dated someone so much younger, it’s like… putting myself out there. You remember you said I was invisible, I am, I like that, I can do my job without being in the public eye or the firing line and I’m good at that.”

“The best.”

“So, suddenly, you… you’re a Rockstar, remember. You’ll be invited to these glitzy events, red carpet shit, you know we’re always getting those invites, and you go because you’re good at that and you roll up in your fancy car with some fancy girl on your arm. So… what… it’d be me?”

He could imagine that. And he liked how it looked.

“Look at that French dude.”

She thought for a moment, then exclaimed, “The President?!”

“Yeah, him. He’s got an older woman on his arm, it doesn’t look odd, they just look into each other.”

“She’s took a beating in the press at times though.”

“Well, I’m not President.”

“Thank fuck for that!”

“Hey,” he made a grab for a waist, “remember I have the goods on you.”

She squirmed a little but he let her hold his hands still on her stomach.

“This is a serious conversation for exceedingly late on a Thursday night.”

“So?”

“So?” She tried to jolt herself awake.

“So what do you say?”

“To what?”

“You know, what’s that thing Connor does…” he kissed along her clavicle, laughter in his voice to disguise the nerves. “Going steady.”

“What?”

“You and I. Let’s ‘go steady’.”

“Doesn’t that mean no sex?”

“Not in my book.”

She smirked, blinking to keep herself awake, staring at the falling snow. “Define it for me then. Because it used to mean I’m going to date you and only you.”

“That’s it.”

“Dating doesn’t mean sex.”

“We can iron out the finer details later.” He rested his chin on her shoulder, close to her face, breathing in the scent of her hair.

“You only want to date me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s very sweet Roman, but we haven’t actually been on a date.”

“I’ve asked. Numerous times.”

She thought on this for a moment, her eyes heavy. “Start small.”

“Okay, skip the red carpets for now.” He stated with a smirk.

“A dinner, somewhere nice.”

“Obviously. But we’ve eaten at numerous restaurants numerous times together, business.”

“Yes?”

“So it’s not that different.”

“What you want me to do suck you off under the table to make a point?”

“If you’re into that! But I was thinking a bit more low key, like you hold my hand.”

“At the table?”

“Yes. And if there’s music, we dance.”

“Oh Christ. People might see us.”

“Entire point,” he kissed her then, long, slow, deep kisses. “Agreed?”

“Mmm,”

“You still awake?”

“No.”

He smiled, laying down beside her, listening to her breathing even out as she fell to sleep.

*

He woke later at the sound of her rummaging on the floor.

“What are you doing?”

“Can’t find my stockings.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost three.”

“Then what the fuck are you looking for your stockings for?”

“I thought I best go home,” she was whispering and she had no idea why, they were alone and he practically owned the entire building. “Get a couple of hours sleep before my alarm goes.”

“Gerri,” he pulled the bedsheets back, “get the hell back in bed and go to sleep.”

“I have no clothes here,” she protested but was already climbing back in next to him.

“Then call off at your apartment on the way in and change. Nobody’s going to notice you not being there at seven precisely.”

“They will."

He snuggled against her back, kissing her head, holding her close. “You should maybe leave a couple of outfits here, for when you stay."

“Wow,” she twisted her head to try and look at his face, check if he was joking. “Is that a first?”

“I’d buy you some, but I know how you feel about gifts.”

She settled back down, "Ha ha, asshole." She closed her eyes, “Pretty Woman,” she says, “Role-play, that red dress.”

“Never watched it.”

“What?!”

“Chick flick.”

“Alright, Dirty Harry.”

*

She’s in yet another board meeting for most of Friday. There’s an email or two from him to her private account with the details for their trip, which she hastily books in with her assistant. And then as the day wears on, and he grows increasingly bored, the texts pick up.

**> Watched PW – you’d look HOT in the red dress.**

**> How have you watched an entire film during the working day?**

**>... ... ...?**

**> Have booked calendar.**

**> Good. I will get you that red dress.**

**> Please don’t.**

**> Dinner. Tonight?**

**> I’m tired. Have you booked?**

**> Tomorrow then – booking now – no backing out.**

**> Fair enough.**

**> Come over?**

**> It’s 6 in the afternoon.**

**> Tonight. Come over.**

**> You’re going to get bored if you have too much.**

**> Never. Your pussy is like some god damn gold dust drug to me.**

**> Oh Christ, go back to the hair thing.**

**> xxxxxxxxx**


End file.
